Smoked to Aged Toonfection (Preview) (Patreon)

“Youse questionin’ ours judgment?!” One of the weasels in the business suits declared, smacking his gloved mitts on the table. “We’s the expert consultation agency dat knows what’s needed for da good of da companies dat hire us!”

“If you say so.” This whole situation was ridiculous. Yet, here Yang was. He needed a new job that could afford rent, groceries, and stuff like that. Something like this supposedly paid very well… according to his cousin that did something similar.

Regardless, Yang took the pen nearby and signed the dotted line at the bottom of the contract. “Alright, all signed.” He handed the objects back to them. “Now what?”

“Nows we needs ta see ya in da role, duh!” One of the weasels reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a large, thick, toon cigar.

He twirled the large cigar between his fingers and stretched his arm over to Yang, dropping it into his palms. “Smoke dis, if ya will.”

“But, ah, I don’t… smoke?”

“In da contract, in da super fineprint (Great… of course I missed something), youse said youse do whatever it tools ta get inta da role. Soooo, get inta da role!”

Another weasel pulled out a lighter stretched across the table. Yang held the cigar up, and the toon lit it up. A strong, powerful aroma instantly arose from it, visible gray smoke rising up into his nose. His sniffer sucked it right up.

Yang shivered. “This isn’t gonna makes me sicks or anythang, is it?”

“Pffft, ‘course it ain’t!” The weasels looked positively offended. “Toons don’t make stuff dat’ll makes youse sick! Toons makes stuff ta help youse grow!”

SNORT. Yang’s nose continued its sniffing/inhaling. It pulled more of that smoke right up it, the tip of his sniffer darkening. It darkened until it was pitch black, pores and details gone. Just a smooth, shiny tone to it.

“Well… fine!” Fwomp. His nose inflated and shifted, the tip stretching wider and the nostrils moved underneath it. Eventually, it was completely, cartoonishly bearish. “Let’s get this over with.”